A Mom Remembered 50 Years Later

(The intent of this blog is to celebrate my mom. She died 50 years ago today.)

I do not remember my mother. 

Nothing about her.  Zero.

Let me correct that. There are two things I remember.

One memory I have is from when I was a 10-year-old fourth-grade boy.  I recall looking at my mother resting in her coffin at Tacoma’s First Lutheran Church following her funeral.

Marie Ingrid Wahlstrom McCrady died on May 1, 1969, from Carcinoma of the lung, i.e. lung cancer. She was 48 years old.

Her ugly death was 50 years ago today.

 

 

I was never allowed to visit her at the hospital.  I was too young. It was not permitted by hospital rules. My brother Carl has shared some stories. The cancer spread to her brain and she started to lose memories. Near the end of her life, I am told, she started screaming, not wanting to die and not wanting to leave her sons. She found a way to get out of her bed and kneel on the floor, begging God to not take her life.

My second memory of her was from when we were living in the Manitou area of Tacoma. I had attended my Cub Scout pack meeting. I walked back, entered the small rental home, and there was my mom sitting at the dining room table. She had been in the hospital. I did not know she was going to be home. I remember nothing else about that evening.

I did not understand what was going on. I recall thinking she was pregnant and that was why she was in the hospital so many times for so long.

I have no memory of being told that she died. None. I thought I had a memory.  In a high school creative writing class, I wrote a story about how I learned of her death. After talking to Carl, I found out that the details were not correct. Somehow, for some reason unknown to me, I created the whole story. And that is OK with me — it did not put a good light on my dad.

Her death, the silence that surrounded it, and the agony of losing my mom as a young child left a hole, a scar if you will, that I did not realize I had until I was married. — several years into my marriage.

The damage from her death came out emotionally. It only reared its ugly head occasionally. Maybe the result of stress.  I do not know.

As an adult married man, I started behaving emotionally as a 10-year-old.  I returned to being Tommy. I started recognizing it after my former wife pointed it out to me. I think this came out in things I would say or things that I would do in reaction to stress. I would react as a child and not as a grown man. Mind you, this was not 24-hour behavior. It came out in how I reacted to situations.

I recall a physical reaction as well.  I attended a speech class in elementary school.  I would pronounce “R” as a “W”. As an adult, when I was tired in the evening, I started doing it again.

At some point, I began to get interested in trying to remember more about her — to tear down the wall separating me from my mother. A counselor suggested I travel with my oldest brother to Omaha, where we lived when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. He thought that maybe seeing familiar things would at least stir some memories.

Although no memories came to light, I returned home a much prouder son. While in Omaha, I visited my elementary school and was greeted by the principal. I told him about my journey and he asked when I had attended the school. He smiled when I told him I left in 1968.

“That was the year the school opened,” he responded.  “One moment.”

He returned from the office carrying a scrapbook. I opened the memory book and grinned.  On the very first page was a story about my mom from the local community newspaper. It told how, after learning that she had died, the local Cub Scout pack named their annual Olympics after my mom. We found one or two other articles about my mom.

I learned how awesome she was and just how much she loved her boys.

She did not work outside of the home —- her entire focus was on her children.

I did not give up on trying to remember my mom. During my marriage separation, I started seeing a hypnotherapist. I had many visits, and she tried everything she knew, but there were no new memories.

I have come to terms that there is a reason God has placed a very firm wall between mom and son. Sometimes I do feel pretty ripped off.  How I wish I could hear her voice. How I wish I could remember her hug.

My oldest brother Carl remembers her and has shared several stories. A couple of my older cousins also remembers her. I am beyond grateful for that.

True, I only have two memories of Marie McCrady — one of her dead, and the other of her when she was sick. But God did not leave me flapping in the wind during those early formative years after her death. Although He chose not to cure her cancer, he provided for me in an amazing way.

Little Tommy needed a mommy.  He knew that. My dad was in the Air Force and worked crazy hours. He was not equipped to be a single dad. I recall eating my share of TV dinners. My two brothers were not thrilled with watching over their stupid kid brother. 

My dad remarried in February of 1971 to Elizabeth Ristig Maher.  I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my brothers and my dad. “Boys,” my dad said, “our family is going to more than double in size.”

“I knew it,” I said.  I was mad.

I was hurt that my mom was going to be forgotten.  After the wedding, I refused to call my step-mom “mom”. We started attending a local Presbyterian church instead of my mom’s Lutheran church.  I begged for us to go as a family to the Lutheran church. That was our church, after all.

Were we moving on from my mom? Were we forgetting her already?

We only went to my mom’s old church once after my dad remarried.  I eventually called my step-mom “mom”.  It turned out that she was a perfect gift from God for Tommy.  She totally understood how to mother me….and my brothers. I felt safe and loved.  She never forced herself on me. I was never encouraged to forget about my mom. 

Every Mother’s Day I feel blessed.  Most people only have one mom.  The God of the universe gave me two —- two moms who loved me to the core. 

I am OK with that.